


Mirror of the sun

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-28 00:23:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Daenerys arrives at Winterfell to attempt to treat with Jon Snow. She's immediately side-tracked by her fascination with Sansa Stark, and the two grow closer. Told from Daenerys's point of view.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is designed to be a vignette exploring Daenerys x Sansa, so there won't be discussion of Daenerys x Jon or Sansa x Jon.
> 
> I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi :)

Sansa greeted Daenerys with icy courtesy that left no room for offense, and precious little for friendship.

“Winterfell greets you with open arms, your Grace.” Sansa gave Daenerys the slightest curtsy. She spoke the words “your Grace” with a careful inflection that left Daenerys with no illusion Sansa had accepted her as her queen.

What Daenerys heard was:  _This is my house, and you do not rule here. You are dragonless in the stronghold of the Starks._

She wore her courtesieslike armor, Daenerys thought, held tight around her. Sansa was a lady through and through. She glided through Winterfell in simple, beautiful gowns. Daenerys wondered if she'd ever donned a pair of pants.  

She gave Daenerys and Tyrion a tour first of Winterfell on their first day, but it wasn't until two weeks later that they toured the forces Sansa and Jon had amassed, including the wildlings who'd fought for Winterfell. 

Daenerys heard the wildling camp before she saw it – the easy shouts between friends calling from campfire to campfire, and the whinnies of horses accustomed to being kept outdoors. The fire pits and tents reminded her of the Dothraki, but the bold stares from men and women alike reminded her that these people were proud to call themselves the Free Folk. They were a rowdy group, full of frank curiosity. As Daenerys was examining a bow made horn, one of them tried to pluck a bell from Daenerys's hair.

She spun around, furious. “Touch me again, and that hand will never touch anything else.” She heard Tyrion sigh behind her. 

“You're not our queen,” the young wildling man said, laughing. “And I don't see your dragons wit' you. So who's to stop me?”

Sansa stepped between the young man and Daenerys. “She's here as our guest, Durmond. Leave her be.”

Durmond stalked off, muttering, but Daenerys could tell his heart wasn't in it. She was impressed. It was also not lost on her that she now owed Sansa a favor. 

“Shall we eat?” Tyrion said, rubbing his hands together. “It's as cold here as it was at the Wall.” 

On the walk back Daenerys had a moment alone with Sansa. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. For your assistance.” 

Daenerys expected Sansa to preen a little. Instead, she simply nodded, curtly. Winterfell loomed nearby under the grey sky. The group trudged alone in silence. The snow was piled in high drifts on either side, as if they were walking through a wintry tunnel. A crew of men worked day and night to keep the path to the castle clear. It was still a losing battle. The snow reached Sansa’s ankles, and Daenerys was up to her shins.

Just before they reached the courtyard, Sansa hesitated. She turned to Daenerys, speaking so that Tyrion could not hear.  “I know...what it's like, to be touched against your will, your Grace. I won't stand for it.”

"Well, that makes two of us," Daenerys said. She saw Sansa start to retreat, her expression like stone.  _Be gracious, for once in your life_. Daenerys took a deep breath. “Wait. I am grateful, Lady Sansa. I just don’t–“

“Need me to protect you.”  Her eyes were blue, and piercing, and Daenerys thought she might get lost in them. “I know, your Grace. I will do it all the same.”

***

The following morning, Sansa stopped by with a cloak in her arms.

"Forgive me, your Grace, for not bringing this sooner. I wanted to welcome you properly with a gift.”

Daenerys held the cloak up to the mirror. The three intertwined dragons embroidered on the back were a deep red against the black wool, and their eyes glittered with onyx stones. It was exquisite work, finer than she’d seen in Qarth, finer than any gift given to her as tribute before she came to Westeros.

She turned to Sansa.  “I thank you, Lady Sansa. I have never seen its equal.”

Sansa inclined her head.  “You’re welcome, your Grace.” A tiny lined creased her forehead. “Wait – please, might I have it back? I think there’s a thread loose. I must have missed it.”

“Did you – this is your handiwork? You have a true gift, my lady.” 

Sansa brushed off the compliment. “It gives me something to do at night,” she said, focused on fixing the thread. 

Daenerys smiled to herself.  _A perfectionist_. She'd seen how Sansa ran the castle with efficiency and attention to detail. While Jon was certainly handsome and good with a sword, Daenerys was beginning to think Sansa outshone him when it came to tactics, strategy, and diplomacy.

When Sansa placed the cloak back in Daenerys’s arms, the sleeve of Sansa’s dress rolled up. Daenerys saw shiny, pink, ugly scars criss-crossing the length of Sansa’s arm. She could not keep from gasping. She was thrown back to memories of Viserys striking her cheek, the sound like the crack of a whip.

The fear of waking the dragon.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

“You see them,” Sansa finally said, steady, not even close to breaking. “You think they mean I am weak.”

Daenerys took a deep breath. She was hazarding a guess, but it came from years of experience. “I do know one thing for certain, Lady Sansa. I know that the man who did this to you is dead.”

Sansa's mouth turned up ever so slightly. “It is not only Targaryens who take what is theirs by fire and blood.”


	2. Chapter 2

That evening, Daenerys was seated next to Sansa at dinner. Sansa looked tall and regal, and Daenerys experienced yet again the uncomfortable sensation of not being the center of attention.

The food was meager, a product of the kitchen stores in winter – stews and soups designed to camouflage the withered carrots and onions that remained. They'd slaughtered a goat for Daenerys's arrival, but that was the last time fresh meat had appeared on Daenerys's plate. Sansa apologized for the fare.

“I lived on grass and horse meat for years when I was with the Dothraki, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys said. “There is food, and enough of it to go around.” Sansa looked slightly uncomfortable, but nodded. They made innocuous small talk while Sansa ate her stew in delicate bites. Something seemed to be troubling her. Finally, Sansa said in a low voice that did not carry, “What are they for?”

“I don't understand. What do you mean?”

Sansa made an elegant gesture towards the back of Daenerys's head. “The bells in your braids.”

Daenerys touched one reflexively.

Sansa seemed nervous for the first time. “Forgive me your grace – I didn't mean to pry.” She was building a wall again, but Daenerys seized on the chance to get through her armor. 

“No, I don't mind,” Daenerys said, more forcefully than she intended. “The braids are for each of my victories in battle. A custom from my time with the Dothraki. The bells let everyone hear how many you’ve won.”

Sansa looked intrigued despite herself. “Truly?”

“Yes.” She was about to say more when Tormund loomed behind Daenerys's shoulder. The giant man with the red beard had made an impression on Daenerys right away, and Sansa seemed to give his counsel more weight than most.

Tormund was clearly drunk tonight. Daenerys could smell the ale on his breath. He swayed towards Daenerys. 

"What is it, Tormund?" Sansa sounded amused. 

Tormund looked as contrite as Daenerys had ever seen him. “Came t' apologize. To your guest here.”

Daenerys patted the seat next to her. "Sit, please. Join us."

Tormund looked to Sansa first, and only pulled up a chair next to Daenerys after Sansa nodded her assent. They're certainly keeping me in check, Daenerys thought. She was so used to giving commands that it was an irksome feeling to not being obeyed immediately. 

“Sorry about Durmond,” Tormund said, putting town his tankard with a loud thunk. “Can't teach him anything. You'd think he'd learn not to grab at girls. Women, I mean,” he said hastily, seeing the look Daenerys gave him. “Got three scars already from trying it.”

“Your men punished him?” 

Tormund laughed, a big booming sound. “The men? No, the women did, right enough. They've all got knives, and know how to use 'em. He'll lose a finger or worse one of these days.”

“Tormund, that's terrible.” Sansa's smile was warm, and Daenerys felt a strange flutter in her stomach. Sansa was lovely, there was no doubt on that score. But when she smiled, she was radiant, shining like the sun.  

Tormund tipped his tankard to Sansa in a salute. “Aye, they're almost as fierce as you, lass.” Sansa shushed him. “No, it's true and you know it.” He nudged Daenerys. "We’d all be dead if it wasn’t for her and her army.”

Daenerys was curious. “What do you mean?”

Tormund grunted, looking over at Jon. He'd come in earlier looking harried. He’d greeted Sansa and Daenerys briefly, and made straight for Ser Davos. The two were still deep in conversation. "Lord Pretty Face over there decided to run straight into the enemy’s arrows, when we took back Winterfell.”

“Ramsay taunted him with our younger brother,” Sansa interjected. “It was a difficult situation, Tormund.” She defended Jon faithfully, at every opportunity.

“Aye, bloody well difficult for those who rode in after him and got hacked to pieces,” Tormund said. “No, you saved us. You won’t talk about it, but you did.”

Sansa cleared her throat. “Jon ended Ramsay Bolton's life.”

Tormund squinted. “Aye, Jon handed ‘im off to you after he’d beaten him to a pulp, and a good thing, too. If I’ was you I’d want to ki–“

Sansa's glare silenced him. 

“Anyways the prick’s gone, that’s what matters,” Tormund grumbled.

“And what of his family?” In Daenerys's experience, the death of a son rarely ended a war. 

“They’re gone too,” Sansa said. “All of them. There are no more Boltons left.”

_And yet here you are_ , thought Daenerys.

Tormund looked at Daenerys earnestly. “Look, all I’m saying is, you want a sword to rally ‘round, get Jon out there. You want a level head – “Tormund jerked his chin towards Sansa “– keep her counsel.”

“I think I will, Daenerys said, attuned to the flush on Sansa’s cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

Daenerys and Sansa had to wait until the end of the meal to learn the topic of Jon and Davos's conversation.  The servants were clearing away the last of the dishes when Davos approached Sansa. “My lady, a word if I may?”

“Of course, Ser Davos.”

“There’s a girl lost,” Ser Davos said. “Looked a little ragged ‘round the edges last time Jon saw her. He's out looking for her now, with some of the men. Packed a tent. He's checking the woods, and wanted you to know he might not be back till tomorrow.” Davos's voice was clipped, but Daenerys could see his hands trembling. Daenerys had overheard Davos telling Tyrion about Stannis’s daughter, burned at the stake by a kind of sorceress, and how close Davos had been to her.

“Who is she?”

“A girl from the village, here as a servant.” Davos managed a smile, likely trying to calm Sansa's fears. “Don’t trouble yourself about it Lady Sansa, we’ll find her, sure as sunrise.”

“Thank you Ser Davos, I am sure you and Jon are more than capable.” Daenerys wasn’t convinced, and she thought Sansa might not be either. She knew the reasons a girl might hide, and knew many of them would mean avoiding men at all costs.

Davos gave Daenerys a curt nod and left. He’d acquiesced to Daenerys’s visit, but he had not approved of it.

Daenerys tried to identify the emotion in Sansa’s eyes.  _Worry_. “Do you trust him?”

“Ser Davos? With many things.”

“But not with this.”

Sansa paused. “No. Not when she might...”

“Be hiding from men in particular?”

Sansa looked at her, relieved, and nodded. “Yes.”

“Where do we look first?”

“Come with me.”

***

Sansa eased open the door to the kennels. Only a few shafts of light illuminated the room. Sansa seemed uncomfortable, and Daenerys wondered fleetingly if she had a fear of dogs. But Sansa greeted the hounds like old friends, heedless, for once, of the mud on her dress.  _Strange_.

The faint sob Daenerys heard at the end of the rows of cages had her running to find its source.

There underneath the straw, well-hidden, was the outline of a young girl. 

Daenerys knelt. She reached her hand through the bars. “It’s all right, it’s all right now.”

One brown eye peeked at them suspiciously. ”Who’s with you?”

“No one,” Sansa said gently, kneeling next to Daenerys. “No one at all.”

The girl raised her head slowly. She rubbed her dirt-smudged cheek.

“How long have you been here?” Sansa asked.

The girl was still wary. “I...would you take off your hood please, milady?”

Sansa's brow furrowed, but she did as the girl asked. Daenerys saw some of the tension lift from the girl's shoulders. “It is you,” she said in a small awed voice. “Milady Stark.”

Sansa looked pleased. “Yes. You're safe now.”

“Your hair, 's like copper, like my mum said.” The girl ducked her head. She looked to be about eleven years old, Daenerys thought. “Been sleeping in here a few days now. Figured if the dogs were warm enough, I’d be all right.”

_Clever girl_ , Daenerys thought. “Are you hurt?” 

The girl looked down, and lifted one shoulder. “Think so. He's gone now anyway. Ran when I bit him in the kitchens.”

Daenerys was about to ask another question when Sansa squeezed her arm, briefly. Daenerys closed her mouth. Sansa was right. Best not to pepper the child with questions.  “Let's get you inside, all right?” Sansa said. “We'll get you dressed, and warm. And if you tell me who did this, I promise you, I'll make sure he never sees Winterfell again.”

The girl sat up straighter. “Yes, milady.”

They bundled the girl up and took her to Daenerys's chambers. She only told them her name – Reya – after Missandei arrived with fresh clothes, and took her aside to speak to the girl alone. Even then, her story came out in fits and starts. A man who worked with her in the kitchens, making bread, had given her trouble. He'd leered at her too long, and grabbed her now and then when he thought no one would notice.

“And then one day he tried to 'take what was his.' At least that's what he said.” Reya spat the words out. She was sitting at Daenerys’s solar table, wearing clothes that were too big for her. “But I wasn't. I wasn't his. I wasn't  _anyone's_. Except mine.” She looked up at the three women plaintively. “Wasn't I?” 

Missandei broke the long silence. She spoke formally, as if she was addressing a queen. “Yes, Reya. You are no one's but your own. Always.”  Reya started to sob, throwing herself into Missandei's arms.

Daenerys wiped her eyes, and she and Sansa gave the pair some space.  

“I felt like that sometimes at King’s Landing,” Sansa said quietly. “Like I wasn't my own. I was a hostage, a pawn to be married off. I was the value of my claim.”

Daenerys put a hand on Sansa’s sleeve. “Forgive me for being bold, Lady Sansa.”

“No, it’s all right, Daenerys.” Daenerys felt a rush of warmth in her chest at Sansa's use of her name. She liked the way it sounded when Sansa said it. 

"In King’s Landing, that is all they saw. It is not who you were. Missandei said it – only you know that, and no one can take it from you. You, and whoever you choose to tell. No one else has the privilege of knowing.”

Sansa pressed her hand briefly, before returning to Reya’s side.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa knocked on Daenerys’s door that evening. Daenerys was thankful for the distraction. Though Reya had looked much better as Missandei ushered her out, her story had shaken Daenerys, and she was having trouble getting to sleep.

“I'm sorry to disturb you. I only wanted to see if the girl was all right.” Sansa was luminous in her white dressing gown, and her red hair was unbound. She was beautiful as the dawn. Daenerys was momentarily stunned – a rare feat.

“She – she is. Missandei’s taken her into her care. She could have no better protector.”

Sansa seemed reluctant to leave. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” Daenerys patted the furs next to her, and the mattress dipped under Sansa's weight. Daenerys was acutely aware of how warm she was next to her.

Daenerys cleared her throat. “Has Jon returned?” Daenerys still thought it odd Jon had left without a word to his sister. 

“Not yet.”

“Why did he not speak to you before he left?” Daenerys winced inwardly. Hardly her most tactful question.

“Jon does not owe me an explanation of his whereabouts.” Sansa sighed. “Besides, he knows I wouldn't mind. Would have wanted him to go quickly, in fact. We...lost our sister, years ago. There's still a hope of finding her.”

But it's fading, Daenerys thought. She saw now why Jon left.

“Anyway, if we could save one child, he knows it would be worth it to me that he go.” Sansa plucked at the hem of her dress. “And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she added as an afterthought. 

“A Stark, always stationed here, every day, no matter the wind or weather?” It made a certain kind of sense, Daenerys supposed, thought it seemed a bit silly. 

Sansa's mouth quirked, and Daenerys felt a burst of pride at making her smile. “An old family saying. A true Stark must always stay within the walls of Winterfell.”

“Or the walls will come tumbling down?”

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, her smile dimming. “Though I will not be a Stark for long.”

Daenerys was nonplussed. “But you are no longer a Lannister.”

“No. Lord Tyrion made that clear when your party arrived.” In truth, Daenerys had argued against it on the ride across the Narrow Sea. Why release a valuable claim before knowing all the circumstances? But Tyrion had been adamant, and now, knowing Sansa had been freed from that burden, Daenerys was glad of it. 

“It won't stay the same, though, when I marry. My name, I mean.” Sansa twisted her fingers together, the first real vulnerability she'd shown, and Daenerys wished she could reach out and lace their fingers together.  “It's funny – when I was a girl I couldn't wait to take my husband's name.  Now all I want is to keep my own.”

Daenerys blinked. She'd never thought about that dilemma. First, because her fate had been to marry Viserys, another Targaryen, and then because her titles were as natural to her as breathing. Her stomach turned at the thoughts of slipping off her name as if it were an old cloak, and putting on a new one. _I'll always be Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen. And why should it be different for her_?

Daenerys knew it wasn't that simple. Targaryens were a special case. Her people had ruled the skies for thousands of years. Still, there might be a way. She'd think on it.  

“You have the Stark name, Lady Sansa. It's engraved into who you are. And you've earned it more than many lords before you.”

“That's kind of you to say.” The tremor in her voice made Daenerys reach out and take her hand after all. She felt a jolt of electricity go through her, and Sansa's small intake of breath told her she wasn't alone. 

 “Might I braid your hair?” Daenerys blurted. “It helps me think,” she said quickly, seeing how cautious Sansa was. “Missandei’s kind enough to let me, but she’s with Reya tonight.” She was certain Sansa found her mad now.

Sansa’s blue eyes softened instead. “It can be lonely, can’t it?”

Daenerys let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “Yes. Yes it can.” Daenerys stood next to Sansa. She let the silky strands pour through her fingers. She tried not to let the soft scent of lavender she caught every time Sansa was in a room distract her. She chatted lightly as she worked, hoping she was taking the right risk.

_There_ , she thought, as she bound the first braid back, and soon four braids wreathed Sansa’s head.

Sansa was smiling when Daenerys led her to the mirror. “What is it?” She deserves more levity in her life, Daenerys thought. More affection. More love.

Daenerys skimmed the first braid gently, letting her finger trace the shell of Sansa’s ear. “Your victories.”

Sansa flushed. “Daenerys–“

She wouldn’t be deterred. “This, for outlasting King’s Landing.”

She touched the second braid, and let her fingers rest on Sansa’s collarbone.

“For reclaiming Winterfell.”

Sansa’s breathing quickened. Daenerys ran her thumb over the nape of Sansa’s neck as she skimmed the third braid.

“For the end of House Bolton.”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut as Daenerys caressed the fourth braid.

“For the name Sansa Stark.”

They sat that way for a long time.

“Thank you, Daenerys,” Sansa said.

“I only read the pages. You wrote the book.”

Sansa started, and stopped, and started again. “Do you think we could write together?”

She tilted her head to meet Sansa's. Her lips were soft, softer than any man's. Sansa overwhelmed her senses and the sound she made had Daenerys reaching for her, pulling her closer. She was falling fast, and this was freefall, this was madness, but love could not wait for times of peace in the Long Winter.


End file.
